In the painful adjustment to the work-a-day world, it's easy to become self-involved. One must position himself for success, establish friendships for the sake of moving up and curate a style that will demonstrate panache, intelligence and compliance to dress code policies of, "Just look trendy" (I'm in my third job in a year that follows this mantra).

Operating under such pressure can result in questionable, selfish behavior: swiping a neighbor's bottle of Grey Goose and DSL password whilst house-sitting, hooking up with a competing coworker only to expose him as a predator and have his position terminated, or dropping your position as a low-ranking editor to cut to the front of the express checkout lane at Whole Foods (all hypothetical situations).

After a certain point, self-interest and sabotage go hand in hand, and losing one's sense of self is inevitable. When happy hour conversations never go beyond suffering the obsession of multiple stalkers or schemes of getting parents to unload a convertible or two, it's time to take a step back and ask, "What am I doing to contribute?" At an age when the phrase "giving back" is more closely associated to courteous sexual conduct than community service, keeping one's feet on the ground is a daily struggle.

No doubt, the second scariest "V" word is volunteer. In high school, I volunteered at luxury retirement community Bayou Manor, reciting numbers at Saturday afternoon bingo games. If I were particularly bored, I would speak in an English accent, which always earned more tips. I bought my first iPod with the cash that I earned "volunteering" during my senior year.

I reapproached the notion of volunteering during my freshman year at a Brooklyn art school, teaching rudimentary math at Marcy Projects, all in hopes of a chance encounter with Jay-Z. I soon learned that the rapper no longer frequented public housing, nor was I particularly well equipped to impart multiplication tables.

With such a successful past in helping out, I decided to cautiously ease into volunteering with cushy tasks. Rather than rescue the future of Brooklyn's youth, I jumped on the opportunity to volunteer at a recent architecture tour of the Southgate neighborhood. My task would be to stand in a room in a ultra-mod home on University Blvd., and ensure that all tour goers stayed on their best behavior.

Naturally, I was in a car on my way to SXSW on Friday evening before I realized that indeed, I would be manning a post the next afternoon. I turned my car around before I even hit Katy Mills.

A Nap Guide

I arrived early to claim a spot in my assigned home's hidden guest room, hoping that nobody would find me there and I'd be able to get a bit of beauty sleep before a well-earned night out. When a tour goer entered the room, I would quickly compose myself and flash them a look meant to communicate, "Nothing to see here," and "Why, yes, I am accepting tips."

Architecture tours definitely deserve an entry on "Stuff White People Like." The majority of attendees were over-educated Southgate-types (let's call them intellectuWASPs) and harmless designers accompanied by their docile spouses and life partners. Nobody complained that I was spending my three-hour shift playing Words with Friends and booking a camping pass for Coachella on my phone.

I assiduously kept my post in the room, revelling in my selflessness.

"This is just so fulfilling," I ruminated as I settled into a catnap in the guest closet — only to be startlingly awoken by a tour attendee opening the door and disrupting my afternoon slumber. Worse, the figure before me was none other than a teacher's assistant from my sophomore year Architectural History 101 course. Yadda, yadda, yadda, after the B+ appeared on my transcript at the end of the semester, I deleted his number from my contact list after sending a belligerent text that included phrases like, "no sense of integrity," "backseat of my Mazda," "GPA genocide," and "lavender is just not your color."

"Don't you see that I'm trying to save the world?" I blurted after his friendly salutation. Confused, he asked me what I was doing. I explained that I was there to maintain the home owner's pristine abode. He wanted to make small talk, but luckily I had karma on my side and could justify standoffishness as diligence to community service.

Labradoodles in the Spacial Experience

One of the kickbacks of the volunteer gig was access to discount tickets to the home tour. Since all of my friends were in Austin for the music festival, I scouted out on my own on Sunday afternoon to check out the designer digs myself. What I found was a collection of houses buzzing with chatty intellecuWASPs who were all too eager to explain the beauty of their expanded 1930s bungalows and 21st-century concrete boxes.

Children were running amuck, closely followed by designer dogs (most of whom maintained their own quarters larger than the master bedroom). After the first three houses, I tweeted:

if i see 1 more labradoodle, idk what ill do, but im finna do it #watchit

Arriving at the next home, I looked to the left of the foyer before being slapped on the wrist by an over-involved homeowner.

"That side of the house is for last! You are devastating the spacial experience!"

I abided and took a left turn into the kitchen before tripping on a pair of Labradoodles. Gritting my teeth, I made my way upstairs to explore a child's bedroom. I was examining a remarkably restored Tiffany glass window when I felt a tapping on my leg. Behind me was a youngster, presumably the room's everyday inhabitant. In her hand was a dog doll. A Labradoodle doll.

Without thinking, I flung open the window and snatched the plush puppy.

"I don't like this! And this is what I'm doing with it!" I proclaimed, heaving the Labradoll onto the street.

While the child seemed unfazed, her mother appeared a moment later to investigate the commotion.

"Do you see what you have done?" she yelled.

Realizing my rapid relapse into selfishness after my righteous streak, I stuttered an apology about offending her daughter and promised to replace the stuffed animal.

For the homeowner, my mistake had nothing to do with crossing her child. The woman walked to the window and ardently examined the detailing.

"You could have botched this window! You are an enemy to architectural preservation."

"You can go now," she concluded.

I walked away from the architecture tour feeling the same way I did after earning cash at Bayou Manor and teaching times tables at Marcy Projects: Alone and confused.

Leaving the world with something besides a string of snarky columns and a sizeable carbon footprint is admirable, but when it comes to community service, I'll stick to gracing SoMo with a pretty face, providing cold PBR for toho guests and recycling those Whole Foods shopping bags.